Sometimes books appear and you know right away you want to read them. Nikki Gemmell is already a very well-known writer, with a lively career as a magazine journalist as well as ten plus full-length books, the best known being her first, The BrideStripped Bare. I have to confess it is the only one I have read. I’m not quite sure why. Her books seem to fall between a few stools: genre fiction, literary fiction, self-help, essay.
But her new book, After, is definitely in my territory. Memoir, true story, traumatic experience, mothers and daughters. I’ve already written my own version, about the death of my mother and my ex-husband within three weeks of each other back in 2008. I wrote it not long after but haven’t been able to bring myself to go back and edit it, let alone publish it. But it is on my list and should be finished by mid-year. I don’t think it will be much like Nikki’s book.
Nikki’s mother chose to die; mine didn’t. My mother never intended to die, ever, and the stupid accident which killed her could easily have been avoided. She was 93; she might conceivably even be alive today if she hadn’t lost her dentures. But that is my story, this is about Nikki’s, sort of, but not really, because I haven’t read it.
Tomorrow we are going to hear her talk about her book at a “meet the author” event in Katoomba, courtesy of the wonderful Gleebooks in Blackheath and Varuna Writer’s Centre. I have been looking forward to it. It’s so much better when you have read the book being discussed. So I did what I always do, and looked for it in a Kindle version from Amazon. Yes, it was there, so that was good, until I looked at the price. $14.99. In hardcover it’s $22.50. There doesn’t seem to be a paperback. What? Yes, it’s Harper Collins’ strategy to get you to buy the hardcover, or at least to stop you buying the e-book. Who would pay $15, even if it’s a great book and you really want to read it? And who is getting the lion’s share of the inflated e-book price? You can bet it’s not Nikki. No, for those who do pay for the e-book, Harper Collins will get the major part of it, even though their production cost for putting it up on Amazon as an e-book is probably near zero, since all the editing was done for the print version, the marketing costs cover both, and tweaking an already existing cover design for Kindle is so easy a kindergarten child could do it these days.
Sorry, Nikki, but I guess I won’t be reading your book for quite a while. I can put my name down for it at the local library, or maybe I will find some friend who has bought the hardcover. But I will not buy any more hardcover (or print) books unless they absolutely cannot be obtained any other way and I really really need them. And although I’m sure your book will be great, I just won’t support greedy publishers who expect readers to cough up absurdly high prices just to keep their existing legacy business model going. Just a reminder: when you “buy” an e-book you don’t really “buy” it in the traditional sense. It isn’t yours. The company who release it can remove it at any time. You can’t lend it to anybody else. You can’t give it away as a present. You are just hiring it. A price above $10.00 is wholly unjustifiable.
Writing my previous post about the pernicious publishing practices which have emerged in Australia in this post-Amazon age, I found myself reflecting on that Australian literary and political figure Bob Ellis. Near the end of his life (he died at his beloved Palm Beach home in April 2016) he gave a radio broadcast about the things he thought had gone on in his life, and in the world.
The thing he emphasized most was how important his early life in small-town Lismore had been, and how much he regretted the way he had lost contact with that tight-knit community-based world – a world when you knew everybody’s family and they all knew you, back for generations. Where families intermarried and feuds occurred and events were celebrated and sins were forgiven. Of course we know it isn’t like that any more – the horrors of small-town and rural life seem far worse now than before – family murders, suicides, drug addiction, child abuse and the rest of it – but the virtues of that former way of life seem ever more compelling to those who left it behind in the heady rush of postwar modernity.
I was a little disappointed in Bob’s book, not because the individual essays and articles weren’t interesting but because I had hoped for something more like an autobiography or memoir. Writing about the times you are in bears the signs of its era. Reflecting back on what you did and thought and why, as in a memoir, highlights the peculiar quality of early life commitments and decisions. What seems self-evident at one time may turn out to seem very peculiar three decades later. From Bob’s radio broadcast I felt he had definitely been in a state of reconsideration, and this book sometimes let you glimpse that, but more would have been welcome. Also, as in life, Bob just couldn’t stop himself namedropping so the reader knows how chummy he was with the great, the good and the famous not-so good.
Bob Ellis was an Australian literary figure, even an icon, whose legacy may disappear quickly. He was a genuinely strange person.
I knew Bob back in his Sydney Uni days, when he hung around with those two great poets Les Murray and Geoffrey Lehmann. Bob was generally long-haired and shabby. Les was fat and looked like a farmer, which in fact he was. Geoff was immaculately be-suited and always elegant and polite. They were an ill-assorted trio. Les went on to become a right-wing identity and Poet Laureate, while Geoff went on to be a lawyer as well as a poet. Bob became ever more leftish, cultivated all his important connections and wrote plays and books.
Young Bob Ellis (ABC)
Although I met and talked to him many times at pubs and parties, he generally ignored anybody who wasn’t important or political. I hadn’t seen him for well over a decade, during which time I had spent two years living with Aboriginal people in the desert. Then, to my amazement, there he was at Maralinga, at the Royal Commission into British Nuclear Testing, 1984. I had been asked to act as the Royal Commission’s anthropological advisor, reporting directly to the Commissioner. “Diamond Jim” McLelland was an august and controversial legal figure with his dapper suits and air of absolute superiority. Renowned as a supporter of Gough Whitlam and accused of extreme Leftism by various Australian rightists, he went on to front the Land and Environment Court.
In the remote flyblown deserts of Northwest South Australia, he fitted in with grace and generally good temper, sitting under flimsy shades among the Aboriginal witnesses, squatting around campfires, and walking unconcernedly through the plutonium fields. I went wherever he went and listened to all the evidence. I suggested questions he might like to ask the Yankuntjara and Pitjantjara speaking people and commented if the translations to and from English seemed inadequate or wrong. Unlikely as it seemed, Bob Ellis was there too. He was there to write a book, he said. He and Diamond Jim seemed to be best mates, and Bob was permitted to attend all the hearings out in the desert. Bob, who was constantly shambling, shuffling and disordered, behaved with his typical contempt for almost everyone. He did try to converse with the Aboriginal witnesses but they had no idea who he was and thought he was just another lunatic white man. Again, he paid no attention to other white people, including me.
I have just finished a long story – novelette length – about Maralinga for my new collection of stories, Radiant Sands, which should be out in a month or two. In Bob’s collected works was a long piece he had written about Maralinga, which I had never seen or even been aware of previously. So I wanted to buy the book to see what his recollections of the event turned out to be, which is what prompted my previous post.
It was a scattered collection of observations. Bob seemed to have attended most closely to the Aboriginal evidence and was able to convey the extraordinary quality of the desert hearings, although the details were sparse. It was a good piece, and I enjoyed reading it.
My own fictional novelette, Last Patrol, to appear in Radiant Sands, is nothing like this. The people Bob Ellis heard and saw were the same groups of people who appear in Last Patrol, but I was trying to restore the realities that lay behind the formality and structured context of a legal hearing. I fictionalised a part of the story which I believed to be true and invented a character who was a composite of all the Patrol Officers I had met and heard about during my years in the desert. I had no reason to question the account of many people I knew well that their relatives had still been living in the far bush during the early 1950s, and that some had perished in the bomb blasts.
I attempted to persuade the Counsel Assisting the Royal Commission to follow up this line of questioning. Many witness statements agreed that there had been people coming in from the far north-west at the time of the first tests, relatives who had never been seen again. But it was a step too far. There was no way of getting direct evidence or witness statements, since, were this a true story, nobody had survived. And maybe it opened up too great a can of worms, even for this enquiry.
Nobody who hadn’t been there could really grasp what had happened. Aboriginal life in the desert in the early 1980s was not so long ago. People had told each other stories, and these stories had passed along the chain of story-telling far to the north and west and around the desert. The criteria of “truth” in a legal case depends on a certain kind of evidence: this, but not that; here but not there. That’s not the way Aboriginal people think, nor is it the way their world is constructed. Even the “black cloud” evidence was not fully convincing to the judge and the legal team. The “missing relatives” story would have been even less so.
Memories and stories have their own rationale; memoirs and autobiographies move to a different rhythm and call for a different kind of truth. Writing about a historical event through fiction is a truly strange form of knowledge-creation. I tried it and liked it but it still makes me feel uneasy. Readers can make up their own minds when the book comes out but in the meantime I have put a short excerpt from the story on this site, under “Fiction” – “Radiant Sands”.
One of my Pages is called “Memoirs”. There I talk about the continuing Memoirs project and its inspiration (or otherwise) by the writings of recent authors. I’m repeating some of that here in this post.
While I still haven’t managed to read the whole of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s opus My Struggle (Volume Six still isn’t published in English anyway and some of them I just haven’t been able to get through) the way he wrote and published has been an inspiration.
I really appreciate the way he didn’t feel obliged to follow the temporal sequence of his existence, but came out with things in what seemed to be almost episodically random order. The first published in English was A Death in the Family and he was writing it round about the same time as I was writing my own maternal mortality story. His revelations about his father, which caused a violent storm in his native Norway, were pretty gruesome. I had nothing of that kind to contribute. My mother had done some pretty awful things like most of us do, but she was nothing like the kind of horror he described his father to be. If anyone was a horror, it was me. Sixty-three at the time, I still thought I had to excel in my career. I still thought I was much more important than anybody else. This was not the frame of mind to be in when trying to help a 93 year old woman through the last year of her life.
Like most English readers I was gripped by Knausgaard’s second volume, A Man in Love, about his relation with his second wife and their family. The texture of everyday existence and his internal monologues as he did his best to live in ideologically correct Sweden and please his feminist wife, the only man taking his little child to pre-school singalongs where he spent the time lusting after the kindie teacher – what happens when you want to be a writer but aren’t allowed to – a woman’s story, now by a man.Well, apart from the lusting after the teacher bit, although I suppose even that can happen in these denormative times.
His other books had less to say to me, and I haven’t finished them all. Still, they are there on my Kindle and I dip in and out of them every once in a while. For all the sense of alienation and irritation Knausgaard is able to stir in me, I like the way he is trying to grapple with himself and come to terms with what a shit he was most of the time.
The second memoirist I must mention is the insanely popular Elena Ferrante (not. All the hoo-haa about who she “really” is has been quite absurd, unless you subscribe to the Author as Sacred Object school of literary activity). On the other hand, though, there might be something to it because everything she has written seems to me completely fake. I really and truly cannot read it. I have tried, started one book, then another, tried going into the middle of the first one, then the end of the third and honestly I have to say I just don’t get it.
One of these days I will try again. If Knausgaard is the masculine consciousness of the twenty-first century, Ferrante is a feminine counterpart. Women seem to read books in order to identify themselves with the narrator, and in line with a lot of feminist theoretical work from the 1970s and 1980s, now largely ignored, it would seem that Ferrante works from the classic masochistic feminine position which a great many women still seem to find compelling and truthful for them.
Knausgaard on the other hand seems to me to occupy that new masochistic hysterical masculinism which our times have produced. This is not the place to conduct a forensic analysis of these writings, looming large over the two thousand teens “serious” reading scene. But it has been the experience of tangling with them both which has sharpened up so powerfully my sense of what Memoirs can, or maybe cannot, do.